


Bereft

by bluesuedeshoes



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:28:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesuedeshoes/pseuds/bluesuedeshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity's thoughts after Oliver left her in the mansion in Unthinkable.  [season 2 finale spoilers]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bereft

Bereft.  That was a good word.  Felicity felt bereft.  Lonely and abandoned, robbed of something.  She stared at the doorway where Oliver had vanished moments before, having a difficult time comprehending anything except the fact that her body was aching with some strange sense of loss.

She was in shock.  Should she squat down and place her head between her knees?  Wait, no.  That was for dizziness.

Although, come to think of it, was the room spinning slightly?  Maybe she was going to pass out.  That might actually make this easier.  But she'd passed out once before after donating blood when she was a teenager, and it was a very not fun experience (hence her fear of needles) .

Oh God.  Needles.  There was a syringe in her hand that was literally their last hope.  Should she hide it on her person somewhere?  No, that was no use.  What if they tied her up?  Or they noticed her trying to get at it?

"Okay, Felicity.  This is no time to panic," she told herself firmly.

 _Seriously?_ a voice in her head deadpanned.  _No time to panic?  This is the_ perfect _time to panic!_   Another wave of dizziness washed over her and she tried not to vomit.

"Ho–kay," she breathed slowly, trying to get a grip on herself.  She needed to think about this.  She needed to get out of the foyer and make it look like she was actually hiding.

 _"I need you to be safe."_ Oliver's voice suddenly replayed in her head.

Where did princesses go when they were being locked away?

The tower.  She turned and started climbing the stairs.  She hated this.  She didn't like playing the damsel in distress.  But then, wasn't that the whole point?  She _wasn't_ some princess in a tower.  She was the ace up Oliver's sleeve.

_"Do you understand?"_

His words seemed to be on repeat as she climbed step after step.  Oh, she understood all right.  Her hand clenched around the syringe as she stared down the hall at door after door.  Briefly she wondered whether any of them led to Oliver's room.  It would probably be the only place in this entire house where she would feel remotely comfortable.  That, or—

"Oh, thank God."  A room with a computer.  She let herself into a room that looked like a small, forgotten office, and sat down at the desk, quickly firing up the computer and debating possible passwords, grateful for the hum of the drive to help drown out her hyperactive heartbeat.

_"I love you."_

"Stop it," she mumbled to herself.  _Don't go there._   _Don't think about it._

_"I love you."_

She rubbed her temples.  _Please stop._

_"I love you."_

She turned away from the computer and studied a painting on the wall, trying to forget the look on Oliver's face when he'd said it.  When had he gotten so good at lying?

She scoffed automatically.  Oliver My-Coffee-Shop-is-in-a-Bad-Neighborhood Queen was easily the worst liar she'd ever met.

_So did he mean it then?_

She shook her head.  _Don't be so completely ridiculous._   She focused in on the painting and slowly managed to comprehend that it was a scene depicting Shakespeare's _The Tempest_.  She was surprised to notice it looked like there was a flaw at the bottom of the canvas.  Or was it a fly?

_"I love you."_

_Stop that._

He _looked_ like he meant it.  That was the craziest part.  He had really looked like he was in love with her.  For a second—she swallowed tightly—for a second it had looked like he was going to kiss her.

Her stomach flipped, suddenly filled with butterflies.

_Stop.  It._

She rose from the desk, unable to concentrate on cracking passcodes and instead fixing her attention on the black thing at the base of the painting.

God, she hoped Oliver's plan worked.

_What if he doesn't come for me?_

She froze midstep, struck by the horrible notion.

Quickly she snapped herself out of it.  Whether or not Oliver would come for her was very possibly the only thing she didn't have to worry about right now.

_"He had you, and he was going to hurt you.  There was no choice to make."_

_Get it together, Smoak.  He_ always _comes.  Not matter what_.

She resumed her path to the painting and squinted as she realized that what she'd taken to be a flaw in the canvas was actually an object fixed to the edge of the frame.

_A camera!_

She had just enough time to register this fact before she heard the sound of the door being smashed open downstairs, automatically spinning in the direction of the noise.

 _What do I do?_ her heart pounded, her eyes widening in fear.  But even as terror consumed her, the answer came to her, calm and calculated:

_Make it look real._

Eyes snapping back to the tiny camera, she grabbed it and threw it to the ground, crushing it beneath her heel, rushing to the door to lock it even though she knew it would crumple like paper at the hands of Slade's Mirakuru soldiers.

For good measure, she rushed back around the desk so she could dive beneath it, crouching down and hugging her knees tight to her chest, feeling like a fool and a coward.  But she needed Slade and his men full of hubris.  The more they underestimated her, wrote her off as some pathetic weakling, the better.

She felt tears stinging her eyes and a small scream escaped her throat as the door crashed in, but she just clutched the syringe carefully in her hand, its presence reassuring.

As she was roughly grabbed and hauled away, several thoughts coursed through her mind at once:

The first was that she was going to survive this out of spite, if for no other reason.  Underestimating Felicity Smoak would be the last mistake Slade Wilson would ever make.

The second thought was a reminder to herself: _He'll never let anything happen to me._

And the final thought was a memory, coupled with a realization.

_"I love you."_

She squeezed her eyes shut tight.  _Damn it.  I'm in love with Oliver._


End file.
